Page 19 of Katie 3

He cups my breast, thumb circling the nipple, and I arch into his touch. He’s so careful, so gentle at first, it undoes me. When his mouth closes over me, suckling and biting, I gasp and clench his shoulders.

He finds the band of my panties and slides them off, finger dragging a line up my thigh as he goes. He barely has them over my knees before I’m trembling for him. He kisses the inside of my knee, then higher, and god, I swear I see him smile at the way I shake for him.

His hands are strong and rough, fingertips tracing streaks up my hips, down to my core, and I’m already wet for him.

The desk creaks as I shift, opening myself wider, hungry for his touch.

“You’re shaking,” he notes, and his fingers sweep a slow, teasing circle around my entrance. I shudder, grabbing the edge of the desk so hard my knuckles ache.

He grins, a slow, wicked thing. “You need me, angel?”

I nod, but he doesn’t move, just holds me open with two fingers, brushing so softly I might scream. “I missed this,” he confesses, eyes glittering. “Missed making you beg.”

“Daddy,” I gasp, desperate, and the word wrings a groan from deep in his chest.

“Say that again,” he orders, his hand still torturously slow as he drops to his knees, all the way to the rug.

“Daddy,” I repeat, voice ragged. “Please.”

He looks at me like he’s starved, and then his mouth is on me, tongue flat and hot, circling and teasing. He doesn’t go straight for it, not at first. He drags it out, savoring every flick, every gasp. He holds my hips so I can’t squirm away, and I realize he’s smiling into my skin.

I arch off the desk, a sound tearing from my throat. His mouth is softer than I remember, but his stubble is rough, and it burns. It’s perfect.

I peek down and he’s watching me, eyes dark, mouth slick. I bite my lip, but I can’t muffle the noises, not when he works two fingers into me, curling them expertly, finding the spot that makes me come.

“That’s it, angel. Let go for me.” He’s relentless, and I do. I shatter around his hand, crying out, thighs clamping his head, and he just keeps going, licking me through the aftershocks until I’m limp and gasping.

He stands, eyes eager, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. I’m still quivering as he lifts me—just lifts me, like I weigh nothing—turns me, and bends me over the desk. His hands splay firm on my ass; he spanks me once and kneads the burn away.

“You’re my little needy whore,” he says, low in my ear.

“Yes,” I whimper, rocking back into him. “Yes, I am.”

He doesn’t make me wait. He’s already undone his belt, already hard and thick and pressing into me, and I moan as he slides inside, inch by inch, until he bottoms out. He pauses, holding me there, letting me feel the weight of him, stretching me, filling me.

“God, you’re so tight,” he grits.

“Please, Daddy… fuck me—” I can’t finish the sentence. He thrusts, building a brutal pace, and I grip the desk, scattering pens and files everywhere. The slick sound of our bodies colliding fills the room, louder than my moans, louder than the slap of his hips.

He grabs my hair, yanks me up so my back arches and my pulse skitters. “Who owns you?”

“You do,” I gasp, dizzy on his cock and his hand in my hair. “Only you.”

He fucks me deeper, harder, one hand still twisted in my hair, the other holding my hip so tight I’ll feel the bruises for days. It’s more than I wanted, more than I remembered, and it’severything.

His words go ragged. “Filthy girl, always so good for me, always so greedy, you’re never going to get enough.” I can feel the tremble in his arms, the want that nearly burns him alive.

It’s that loss of control, the unfixable thing in him, that makes me dissolve completely. He’s never needed me the way he needs me now, and it’s all in the sweat on his brow, the wild snap of his hips, the way he fucks me until my vision drowns in white.

He pounds into me, relentless, and I come, clenching down so hard he curses and nearly falls apart.

“That’s it, my good girl,” he pants, the words making me drunk. He fucks me through every aftershock.

He leans his weight on me, mouth at my ear as his thrusts linger. “You still want me, after all this?” he whispers, voice hoarse.

“Always,” I moan.

He breathes in deep, like he’s memorizing the smell of my skin. Then he starts again, slower, deeper, each thrust rolling through me like thunder. Like he wants to fuck the doubt out of my body, every last piece of it. Every time I think I can breathe, I shudder, clamp, and my pussy grips him tighter.

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